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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27328270">The King's Pet</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgana/pseuds/Morgana'>Morgana</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dark, Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:48:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>928</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27328270</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgana/pseuds/Morgana</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The king of Asgard has a pet</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The King's Pet</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><span>The King of Asgard has a pet.</span><br/> <br/><span>It’s not the kind of pet that sits curled at the foot of the throne as he holds court. Nor is it the kind of pet that follows him throughout the day, faithfully dogging his footsteps as he walks among his people. It’s not even the kind of the pet that most have ever laid eyes on, save for the day the king dragged it howling through the palace, clawing at the chains that bound it.</span><br/> <br/><span>But they know it’s there. They can hear it scream when he visits it every night. Its wretched, howling cries echo through the halls of the newly constructed city, a haunting lullaby that sends Asgard’s children drifting off to dreams that would once have been seen as nightmares. But now the children slumber through the night, safe in the knowledge that none will trouble Asgard so long as their king’s pet’s screams ring in the ears of those who carry the tales far and wide.</span><br/> <br/><span>All Asgard knows of the king’s pet, but they don’t talk about it. There are no comments at the tavern tables when shrieks split the quiet night outside, just as there is no idle kitchen gossip about the ragged sobs that often drift up through unused feeding channels. The king has forbidden anyone to offer food, drink, or any comfort to his pet - he tends to it personally, takes it what meals he deems necessary, and these days, only the foolhardy or suicidal would try to defy him.</span><br/> <br/><span>He wasn’t always like this. There are many who remember when their king smiled at the feasts he presided over, when his cold eyes held warmth and even mischief in their depths, but that was a long time ago. It was a time Before. Before his people were slaughtered, Before his kingdom was forever changed, Before he lost everything dear to him.</span><br/> <br/><span>Before his brother was killed before his very eyes.</span><br/> <br/><span>None speak of the lost prince of Asgard now. His name is never on his people’s lips, his likeness is nowhere to be found. Sacrifices have never been offered for him, and when funeral rites were conducted, first for those slain in the massacre, and later, for the Allfather, he was not included. But there isn’t a soul in Asgard that would dare to suggest that their lost prince has been forgotten, or that he remains unmourned. Not when their king wears his grief for his brother like a second skin.</span><br/> <br/><span>Tonight is Vetrnætr, and many in Asgard believe the king will make a sacrifice of his pet, using its blood to strengthen the magic that protects them all. But the king and his pet know better - or at least, the king does. He will ensure that by the end of the night, while his people feast above and offer up their prayers for a safe winter, his pet does as well.</span><br/> <br/><span>The door opens soundlessly, but the king’s pet is well aware of its master in the darkness beyond. It curls into itself as much as it can, the faint shushing sound of its naked limbs sliding over stone the only noise in the depths of its prison. For a long moment, it can only hear its own ragged breathing, and then the king speaks.</span><br/> <br/><span>“They think I’m going to use you as an álfablót.” The words bring the pet’s head up. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”</span><br/> <br/><span>The question is a trap. The pet knows this, just as it knows there is no escape from it. Silence will bring punishment and a demand for a reply. Words are forbidden to it, even if the ability to form them had not been lost long ago, and there is no answer that can be given that will appease the king. The pet sacrificed any hope of ever doing that when it slew the king’s brother.</span><br/> <br/><span>It hesitates, then nods. Álfablót means an end, its blood offered up to the gods, and while it would be a poor álfablót by any measure, an end is all the king’s pet truly desires anymore. It used to want things, or at least, it thinks it did. Now all it wants is for the king to forget it exists.</span><br/> <br/><span>A hard backhand knocks it to the floor in response. “Fool,” the king spits. “You die on the day my brother returns and not a second before.”</span><br/> <br/><span>It isn’t the first time he’s made this promise to his pet. The king’s brother had sworn he would come back to him, that death could never keep them apart, only moments before - </span><br/> <br/><span>Something sharp slices into its abdomen and the king’s pet is almost grateful for the distraction from the memory of the evil its hands had done. With that, the king sets to work. His pet screams as the king splits its skin, moans weakly when fire sizzles through its veins, and gibbers out guttural, unintelligible pleas while its blood pools slickly on the floor, forever tacky with the seemingly endless river that pours forth from its mangled body. </span><br/> <br/><span>Perhaps it is indeed the king’s álfablót tonight, but it is pain and blood and screams the king offers the gods, rather than the life of his pet. The hours pass slowly, or maybe the king has stopped time altogether, but eventually he wipes his hands clean and speaks once more.</span><br/> <br/><span>“See you tomorrow night.” </span><br/> <br/><span>And with that, Loki, King of Asgard, turns his back on the wreckage that was once the Mad Titan, and walks out the door.</span></p>
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